The hands, you tell me, the hands
are glass keys, the navigators of distance,
weather vanes of wind, rain, and bitter heart,
the framework of knotted fists.
The hands say more than eyes, speech,
and sex combined. You are right, of course.
But the hands linger too long for safety.
They grope, grab, grapple with memories
the mind can no longer recall,
reach for whiskey, cigarettes,
for warmth between the flesh and the pulse
of good womanly thighs
in the black breath before dawn,
the same hours that drove ancient men to madness
on ships, in empty rooms, and stone cells
Sever them, good woman—
they are wild as newborns,
they are too much responsibility.

© 2005 by Greg Watson. All rights reserved.